


Tricks You've Never Seen

by adjectivebear (HealerAriel)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Magic, SMUTTY SMUT, your trickster god is showing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 13:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4879228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HealerAriel/pseuds/adjectivebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the ancient elven artifacts has lost power. There's an ancient elven spell for that...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tricks You've Never Seen

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kink Meme.
> 
> And yes, I _did_ shamelessly jack the title from Ciara's "Love Sex Magic."

“It’s broken,” Alya Lavellan announced, rapping her knuckles against the lifeless orb for emphasis.

She was rewarded with a long-suffering sigh. “It is a magical artifact,  _da'len_. They do not simply  _break_.”

“Well, you  _say_  that, but this one obviously has,” Alya said, stepping aside to allow the thorough inspection that was inevitably about to be conducted. Solas did not disappoint, immediately rushing forward to begin poking, prodding, and magicking the orb.

Alya rolled her eyes—albeit fondly—and set about wiping the worst of the spider-and-demon muck from the last battle off of her clothing. These things took Solas ages anyway, and it would hardly do for the Inquisitor to stain her brand new robes.

Yes, she realized armor was expected to get dirty. No, she did not care.

Her leather overcoat was nearly as good as new by the time Solas finally straightened, frowning at the orb. “Interesting. The magics which allow this artifact to function appear to have—”

“Broken?”

“Haha! You were wrong!” Sera crowed, positively cackling at the stern look Solas shot her.

“It is not  _broken_ ,” the apostate insisted, “the magic powering it has simply weakened. We will need to find a way to strengthen it again. I will think on it when we return to camp.”

* * *

  
Alya awoke during the night to find Sera sitting by the fire, sharpening her daggers between pulls on a bottle of liquor. This, like the huge, snoring mass of Bull at the far side of camp, was a familiar sight. The empty tent beside her own, however, gave her pause.

“Where’s Solas?”

Sera shrugged. “Back at the cave, I think. He said some shite about communing with the Fade.”

“What, alone? It’s absolutely infested with giant spiders!”

“Like  _I_  could’ve stopped him? You know how he gets. Where are  _you_  going?”

“To make sure nothing eats him, of course,” Alya said, gathering up her staff.

Sera grinned wickedly. “Yeah, I bet.”

“What are you on about, Sera?”

“’ _Ooh_ , Solas,‘” Sera cooed in a high-pitched approximation of Alya’s accent, “'tell me more elfy nonsense!'”

“That sounds nothing like me.”

“'What’s that? I’ve already heard all your rubbish stories? That’s alright, I can think of other stuff for you to do with your tongue.'”

“You’re disgusting,” Alya informed, tossing a rock at Sera’s head (the rogue dodged it artfully, sniggering into her bottle) before turning on her heel and heading off in the direction of the cave.

She chose to ignore the kissy noises Sera made after her.

* * *

It seemed that Alya stood corrected on the spiders. She doubted that even the cleverest of them could have gotten through the half dozen wards she had to dispel to get to where Solas sat, scribbling something on a length of parchment.

He looked up when she drew near, his piercing eyes locking onto hers. “It is late. Are you unable to sleep?”

“No. I mean, yes.” Alya cleared her throat and tried again. “I mean, I  _can_  sleep. But I woke up and you weren’t at camp, and Sera said you’d come here, so I thought I should come and… keep you from getting eaten by spiders,” she finished, wincing slightly.  _Creators, it just sounds stupid when you say it out loud…_

“My wards—”

“I put them back up after myself,” she said hastily. She’d made the conversation awkward enough already; getting scolded for failing to mage properly was the last thing she needed. Solas seemed appeased, and turned his attention back to the parchment. Alya pretended to be terribly interested in her fingernails. “So…” she began after a moment, “did you figure some way of recharging the artifact?”

“Several ways,” he said, still scribbling away. “The quickest and most effective is a simple sex rite.”

Alya blinked rapidly. “A… what?”

“A sex rite,” he repeated. “Strong magic, fallen largely by the wayside now. A shame, really. This particular ritual requires six mages; only elves will do, so we will need to send for some of Fiona’s people. This is the chant they will need to recite while you and I perform the rite,” he said, gesturing to the parchment.

Alya felt a hot blush creeping toward the tips of her ears. She could not possibly have heard him correctly. “Er… you and I?”

He finished writing and looked up at her, smiling that frustratingly serene smile of his. “Yes. We are likely the most powerful elven mages available apart from the Grand Enchanter herself, whom I doubt would be willing to participate. And even if she were, this type of magic is most effective when the rite is performed by a pair who share an emotional connection.”

 _Is_  that  _what it’s called when you tell a girl to stay away from you immediately after snogging her brains out?_  was what Alya wanted to say. A squeak was all that actually came out of her mouth.

Solas frowned. “Is something the matter?”

Alya let out another squeak. When she finally found her voice again it sounded painfully shrill even to her own ears. “Did you honestly just tell me that to get that stupid orb working again you need to… to  _couple_  with me?  _In front_  of people?”

“It is magic.”

“It’s not really how a girl pictures her first time!”

The frown deepened. “You are a virgin?”

Alya bristled at the note of surprise in his voice. “Of  _course_  I am! I’m not married.”

“One  _hardly_  needs to be—”

“You do if you’re Dalish,” she said firmly. “And you can go right ahead and spare me the lecture about how dreadfully  _prudish_  my people are compared to the fabulous ancient elves you’ve seen in the Fade, because I don’t  _care_. How they did things does nothing to change the fact that  _I_  grew up being told over and over that I needed to remain chaste because Fen'Harel takes the bad girls and—oh, stop that! Stop  _smirking_  at my religion!”

“My apologies,” he said, having the good manners to look as though he almost meant it as he rose from his seat on the grassy floor. “I understand that Dalish customs are important to you. However,” he continued, just as she’d been foolish enough to breathe a sigh of relief, “this ritual is the only way to return power to the artifact that doesn’t involve months of preparation or blood sacrifices. If we wish to prevent further tears in the Veil here, it will need to be performed.”

Alya’s head was spinning, her cheeks feeling hot enough to catch fire as he closed the distance between them. A gentle hand cupped her chin and tilted her face up to meet his gaze. Her irritation fled, and she was embarrassingly certain her features had melted into what Sera referred to as her “gooey face” as she stared deeply into his fathomless eyes.

His voice, when he spoke again, was low and soft. “That being said, I cannot force you. Even if I were so inclined, the ritual would not work. That is always the way of it with magic powered by pleasure.”

“Pleasure…?”

“Orgasm,” he clarified, the twinkle of amusement in his eyes belying his academic tone. Liquid heat coiled, unbidden, in her core, and she found she rather wanted to slap him. Or kiss him. Or both.

“Oh. So I… I also have to… I-in front of everyone…”

“Yes,” he said, and Alya hated that even the abject horror she felt at the thought could not prevent the needful whimper that escaped her when he pressed his lips softly to hers.

It wasn’t as if she’d never thought about doing  _that_  with him. Though her daydreams were mostly of sweet kisses, it would be a lie to claim she’d never lain awake at night wondering how it would feel to have him inside her. But even in the most feverish of these fantasies, it was her wedding night she dreamt of, and there  _certainly_  wasn’t an audience.

“Can we… hold off a bit?” she asked hopefully. “The other artifacts in the area are perfectly functional, after all. The ritual may not even be necessary.”

After closing the fourth new rift that week, however, she was forced to admit that it  _was_.

* * *

 

Like all dreaded things, the day of the ritual arrived before she knew it, and twilight found Alya, Solas, Grand Enchanter Fiona, and three more of the rebel mages congregated in the cave. Sera had offered—after declaring, with no small amount of glee, that she hadn’t realized “the old pervert had it in him”—to come along for moral support, but Alya had declined. It was bad enough that she would never be able to look the Grand Enchanter in the eye again; she couldn’t bear the thought of feeling that way around her friend.

She hung back, her stomach twisting in knots as Solas inscribed a casting circle on the ground near the artifact. At any other time, she would have been firing a million questions at him about the origin of the spell, its traditional uses, and how and why it worked, but her frayed nerves quelled her usual intellectual curiosity. She watched the other mages position themselves along the edge of the circle in each of the cardinal directions.

And then it was time.

Reminding herself that this was for the good of Thedas, she took Solas’s proffered hand and joined him within the circle.

Then his clothes were  _gone_ , and the good of Thedas was the furthest thing from her mind.

“You didn’t tell me we had to be  _naked_!” she hissed, clutching her own robes more tightly around her and training her eyes pointedly on his face, if a moment too late to avoid discovering that the breadth of his shoulders was not the only area in which Solas was rather larger than other elven men.

“I assumed it was implied,” he said, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather. He cocked his head. “And I was under the impression that the Dalish found nothing inherently sexual about nudity.”

“Explain to me how this situation is not inherently sexual.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “Fair enough. Nevertheless…”

Alya groaned inwardly and began divesting herself of her robes. He was right, of course. Back home she and her clan had spent more hot summer days than not as naked as the day they were born. But try as she might to convince herself that this was no different, the fact remained that none of those occasions had involved waiting to be deflowered in front of the sodding Grand Enchanter.

Once she’d tossed the last of her clothing aside, the chant began. She couldn’t understand the bulk of it, but certain words sounded familiar enough that she presumed it was an ancient form of Elvish. She watched in wonder as the circle on the ground began to glow, brighter and brighter with each refrain. At the same time, slender beams of glistening magic snaked forth from the mages’ outstretched hands, linking each one to the next before arcing over their heads, weaving itself into a glittering canopy of iridescent light above the ritual circle.

“It’s beautiful,” Alya breathed, forgetting for a moment her own part to play in this ritual.

“Yes,” Solas agreed. “One of the many things the People have lost.”

Alya turned to him. “And you learned this—all of this—from memories in the Fade? Just like that?”

He inclined his head.

“Will you teach me,  _hahren_? Will you teach me everything? The value this sort of knowledge would hold for my clan, it would be…” She couldn’t even put it into words.

“If you wish,” he said. “But first, there is a ritual to complete.”

That brought her rather harshly out of her scholarly reverie, and she noticed for the first time the small bowl he carried. The liquid within was none she could identify, by turns viscous and fluid as water, and glowed the same unearthly green as veilfire.

Before she could ask what it was, he dipped a finger into it and began painting a symbol over her heart. Trying to ignore how tight her nipples grew at his touch, Alya watched as an unfamiliar rune took shape. She had expected the liquid to sit atop her skin like paint, but it didn’t. Instead, it seemed to sink in like a tattoo, glowing all the more vibrantly once the rune was complete.

His task finished, Solas pressed the bowl into her hands. He looked at her expectantly.

Because apparently he still hadn’t quite gotten it out of his head that being both an elf and a mage somehow gave her the ability to read his mind.

“Er… what do I… do with it?” she asked, desperately hoping she wasn’t meant to drink it.

“The same symbol. You must mark it on my skin.”

Alya frowned and craned her neck to study the rune on her chest, trying to determine how all the lines connected. Mythal’s mercy, but breasts got in the way sometimes!

Solas laughed. “Ah, my mistake. You  _wouldn’t_  know this one,” he said, capturing her hand and dipping her index finger into the bowl. He spoke an Elvish word she didn’t understand as he guided her finger over his chest. “There is no equivalent word in the common tongue,” he explained. “I believe the nearest translation would be: 'to quake with unbridled sexual passion.'”

Alya’s cheeks burned. “We had a  _verb_  for that?”

Solas smiled. “Is it not fascinating what a culture’s language can teach us of their values? The Qunari, if I am not mistaken, have at least a dozen words for 'to obey;’ the humans have one for 'to throw someone or something out of a window.’ What could we infer about the ancient elves from the existence of _this_  word?”

Alya chewed on her bottom lip. Goodness, she hadn’t been prepared for him to turn this into an anthropology lesson. “Er… well, I  _suppose_  we could—”

She stopped.

The rune on his chest was complete. The bowl was long gone. One of his hands rested in the small of her back; the other had threaded itself into her hair. His lips hovered mere inches from hers.

 _Oh, clever_ …

She shivered. “ _Hahren_?”

“Mm?”

“You’re a terrible person.”

He chuckled and bent to claim her lips.

Alya’s legs wobbled, and she clutched his shoulders to keep her balance. Creators, how did he  _do_  that? She had kissed an almost scandalous number of boys back home (three!), and none of their kisses had ever made her weak in the knees the way Solas could with just the barest touch of his lips.

But then, she thought with a guilty thrill, Solas was no boy.

His tongue played at the seam of her lips and she bit back a moan, heat blossoming between her thighs so quickly that she was almost ashamed of herself as she opened her mouth to him, greeting his tongue with her own. It was indecent, she knew, for a girl to appear too eager, but he hadn’t kissed her properly since that day in the Fade—hadn’t kissed her  _at all_  save for that brief peck on the lips the other night—and this… oh, this was so much  _better_!

The Fade, it seemed, had not been able to reproduce the exact warmth and softness of his lips, the precise texture of his tongue. It had omitted entirely the taste of him: the sweet, sharp bite of the heavily-sugared mint tea he favored, too cloying when they shared it in his study, but delectable on his tongue. The warm press of his bare chest against hers, the taut muscles flexing beneath her fingers, the fingertips trailing up and down her spine, eliciting pleasant shivers in their wake—all of these things were new and marvelous and left her breathless.

She gasped as he slid his thumb along the edge of her ear, the touch sending a shock of pleasure straight to her core. She felt his lips curve into a smile before they abandoned her own, beginning a leisurely journey along her jawline.

He spoke an Elvish phrase between soft kisses. “Do you know what that means?”

“'Y-you delight me,'” Alya translated, not sure whether it was his words or the brush of his lips against her ear that had her trembling. He nipped sharply at her earlobe, and her knees buckled.

Creators, both. It was both. She arched against him, her breaths growing ragged as he teased the sensitive flesh with kisses, licks, and gentle bites.

“Very good,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear as his hands drifted down to palm the swell of her buttocks. He caressed them almost reverently, then  _squeezed_ , tugging her hips forward to meet his. Something hard and hot pressed against her belly, and her cheeks burned with the realization of what it was.

And what he intended to  _do_  with it.

Alya’s head swam, fierce tremors wracking her body as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss below her jaw. “Solas, people can  _see_ ,” she protested weakly, even as she tilted her head, exposing her neck to him in a wordless plea for more kisses.

“They can. What of it?”

Alya’s eyes fluttered shut as he dragged his tongue down her neck. Right, she’d had a point. What had it been, again?

He paused his attentions to bear her down to what ought to have felt like damp grass, but felt instead like the softest sheets in all of Thedas, silken and shivering with magic. The vulnerability of her new position cleared some of the fog from her mind, and she’d almost moved to cover herself before he stretched out alongside her. He swept an admiring gaze over her body, and Alya squirmed pleasantly.

He ran his hand along her flank. “So beautiful,” he said in Elvish, capturing her lips in a kiss more insistent than the last. This time Alya could not prevent the hungry little moan that escaped her, and she could have sworn she heard—felt?—him chuckle at her before deepening their kiss, that warm hand rubbing soothing circles on her stomach.

She jerked away in surprise when his fingertips met the underside of a breast. “What are you doing?”

He smiled patiently, repeating the Elvish word he’d written on her skin.  _To quake with unbridled sexual passion_. “Tell me, does this sound like the sort of ritual that could be satisfied by some brief, perfunctory coupling?”

Alya swallowed hard. “N-no.”

“No,” Solas agreed.

“But…” Alya’s voice failed her, her eyes flitting from one rebel mage to the next.

“Pay them no mind. Focus on feeling.”

The protest that such a thing was easier said than done died on Alya’s lips as he traced her collarbone with his tongue. She closed her eyes tightly.

This was for their spell, she reminded herself. Surely, then, there ought to be no shame in it. The pinpricks of heat that arose as he peppered her neck and chest with kisses, the wetness blooming between her legs, the arching of her back when he brought his hand up to knead her breast—all of it was for the sake of the  _ritual_ , not for her own base pleasures. She was still a good girl.

Alya’s heart pounded in her ears as his kisses trailed lower, slowly following the curve of the opposite breast, and she bit her lip as scenes from the racier Orlesian novels she’d read swam into her mind. Would he—?

The soft flick of his tongue against her nipple answered the question before she’d dared think it in its entirety. She gasped, her toes curling as he lavished the aching bud with licks and kisses that she swore she could feel all the way to her cunt.

He surprised her with a firm pinch to the other nipple, the sharp burst of pleasure drawing an immodest cry from her throat. She felt him smile against her breast, and she had half a mind to scold him for his wickedness before he redoubled his efforts, suckling her in earnest as his clever fingers teased her. She writhed helplessly under his ministrations, the delicious sensations somehow at once too much and not enough, and that didn’t make any  _sense_ , but oh, it was  _good_!

She whined when he finally abandoned her breasts—whether out of disappointment or relief, she couldn’t say—and he shushed her, stroking his hands down her sides as his lips continued their journey, painting her ribs and belly with wet kisses.

She yelped when he dipped his tongue into her navel, the feeling halfway between arousing and ticklish, but he did not linger there. He continued ever onward, following along the curve of her hip and thigh, then gently lifting up her leg to trail kisses back up along the inside of it.

Here, he paused, and Alya’s breath caught in her chest as he rubbed his cheek against her inner thigh. He caught her gaze, his eyes burning with an expression she’d never before beheld. “May I kiss you here?”

Alya cocked her head, puzzled. Why was he asking her now? Hadn’t he already been…?

She followed his gaze.

Oh.

_Oh._

She nodded, her cheeks blazing as he settled himself between her thighs. He pressed a soft kiss to her nether lips, and she sighed. This was nice, she decided, her eyes drifting shut as he followed that kiss with others. For all that people built this up as some pinnacle of debauchery, it was really quite relaxing. Chaste, even—

Her eyes flew open as his tongue slid between her folds.

Well. She  _had_  been wrong before.

“Oh, gods,” she breathed, her fingers scrabbling for purchase against his scalp as he lapped at her. A hard stroke of his tongue had her squealing as it brushed against the very spot that throbbed and ached when her thoughts turned to impure things, and he must have sought it out specifically, because he stayed there, swirling and circling his tongue until she was keening, her hips canting of their own accord as her body searched for… something.

Just as she’d begun to feel that something utterly, momentously  _important_  was about to happen, he withdrew, and she nearly wept in frustration.

He climbed back up her trembling body, placing kisses haphazardly as he went. He stroked her cheek. “Are you ready?”

It took a moment for her to clear her head enough to answer. “I—yes, but, should I—do I need to do anything for you?”

A rather sheepish smile came to his lips. “That will, ah, not be necessary.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Alya said lamely as she caught sight of the flushed, swollen cock between his legs. Her head spun. Creators, and she’d thought it abnormally large before! “Are you… quite sure it’s going to  _fit_?”

“Quite sure,” he said with a smile. “But—” he slipped a finger into her cunt, and she wriggled as warm tendrils of magic issued forth, licking at her insides. “To spare you any pain,” he explained, kissing her sweetly on the lips, and her heart swelled at his thoughtfulness as he positioned himself between her legs.

She was all the more thankful for his spell as he pressed inside her, so very long and thick that she was half afraid he would split her in two. It seemed to take ages before he was finally fully seated, his hips flush with hers.

He shuddered, his eyes shut tightly.

Alya frowned, touching his cheek. “Solas? Is something the matter?”

He let out a small laugh. “It has been quite some time since I lay with a woman,” he admitted, turning his head to kiss her palm. “Let us see if I still remember…” He withdrew slowly, and thrust in to the hilt again.

His movements soon evolved into a steady pace, and Alya moaned softly, draping her legs about his hips. She tried to move her hips in time with his—'tried’ being the operative word—and he smiled warmly, bending to steal a kiss before quickening his thrusts.

Alya gasped, tightening her legs around his waist, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. She stared up into his face, and found him watching her with the same intensity. She closed her eyes, suddenly bashful about being so intimately joined with him.

“Oh,  _Solas_ —”

He captured her lips in a fierce kiss before the words had completely left her mouth, and seconds later she found herself devoid of him as he flipped her onto her hands and knees. He dragged his tongue up her spine.

“What are—ah!” she cried as he entered her from behind. His thrusts no longer held any semblance of gentleness, and the fact that she was a good girl fled Alya’s mind completely. She rocked back against him, clawing at the ground as she speared herself on his cock, that feeling of momentous foreboding coming upon her once more. “Oh, Creators,  _harder_ , harder, please,  _hahren_ ,” she begged.

He acquiesced with a groan, gripping her hips tightly enough to bruise as he slammed into her, strains of Elvish that she couldn’t decipher falling from his lips.

“Oh, gods!” she cried. “Oh, gods, I think I'm—” she finished in a loud wail as wave after wave of indescribable  _pleasure_  crashed over her body. Not a second later she felt him go still behind her, his cries mingling with her own, and she was blinded by a sudden flash of brilliant white light.

Alya blinked rapidly, trying to chase the dark motes from her eyes. The ground felt like damp grass again, she realized as she felt Solas slump down against her back. He nuzzled her cheek.

“Look,” he whispered.

Several feet away from where they knelt, the artifact, once dormant, glowed merrily.

Alya laughed. “It worked!”

“It did,” he said.

Alya bit back a mournful sound as he withdrew from her. He helped her to her feet.

A delicate cough reminded her that they were by no means alone. Alya turned to Grand Enchanter Fiona, who was looking rather pink.

“Inquisitor.”

“Grand Enchanter.”

“We shall never speak of this again.”

“I think that would be for the best,” Alya agreed, with as much dignity as she could muster with seed trickling down her thighs.

* * *

Creators, she was going absolutely mad.

She’d barely breathed a word to Solas since that fateful evening. He had accepted this with a surprising amount of grace, clearly judging her avoidance to be born of awkwardness, but unfortunately, awkwardness was not the problem. Alya had mentally prepared herself for awkwardness. She had _expected_  it.

What she had  _not_ prepared herself for was spending every waking moment so damned  _preoccupied_! She could not pass a quiet moment without scenes from their night together flashing into her head; could not so much as  _look_  at Solas without remembering, in lurid detail, the feel of his hands, his mouth, his cock. It was a terrible, embarrassing,  _frustrating_  distraction that never failed to leave her wet and aching.

After a week of near-constant discomfort that no amount of squirming against the seam of her leggings could alleviate, she could stand it no longer. And so, late enough that she was sure all of their companions had retired to their tents, Alya crept into Solas’s.

He was not asleep. She could see his eyes in the dim light, tracking her movements with an expression of mild curiosity as she crawled over to his bedroll. Encouraged by his lack of protest, she slipped in beside him. She felt him tense a bit, only to relax again a moment later, curling his arm around her. Her heart fluttered in nervous anticipation.

This was it: the time for boldness. She steeled herself. “Solas?” she whispered, mindful of the potential to be overheard. “Will you lay with me again?”

His face remained impassive but for that familiar glint of amusement in his eyes. “What about your Dread Wolf?”

Alya snorted. “What’s that saying the Fereldans have? 'Closing the barn door after the horse has already got out?'” She snuggled closer, laying her head on his chest. “If my elders are right, he’s already coming for me. What more harm can we possibly do? And he’s not  _my_  Dread Wolf,” she added somewhat peevishly.

He chuckled. “An area in which we will have to agree to disagree.”

The man was impossible. Still, she forged ahead. “Will you, though? Lay with me? I'm—I have a… a need.”

“A  _need_?” Solas repeated, idly coiling a lock of her hair around his finger. “If I understand you correctly, I daresay you are more than capable of tending to that particular need on your own.”

It took Alya a moment to grasp his meaning. “Good girls don’t  _do_  that.”

“Truly? Do they often sneak into men’s tents asking for sex?”

Alya pulled away, irritated. “Fine. If all you’re going to do is make fun, I'm—”

She let out a squeak of surprise as Solas pulled her back down, sealing his mouth over hers in a searing kiss. She moaned happily, pressing her body fully against him. She poured all her frustration and yearning of the past week into returning his kiss, and he hummed approvingly, wrapping her up in his arms as though he never wished to let her go.

They were both quite out of breath by the time they parted.

He regarded her fondly, tracing her cheekbone with the pad of this thumb. “Have I created a monster,  _vhenan_?”

Alya’s heart pounded giddily. “It’s a distinct possibility.”

There was barely another word breathed between them that night, either, but it was for a reason Alya  _vastly_  preferred.


End file.
